


Sleep Drunk

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at humour, Gen, Implied Slash, M/M, Short One Shot, Sleep Deprivation, Tired Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 18:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All work and no sleep makes Sherlock a naughty boy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.  
> Don't hate me.  
> I'm buzzing and want to write a hundred things at once...this was one of them...

John was pulled from slumber by a noise, a rumbling growl right into his ear, and he blinked in the darkness of the room in confusion and then a sudden seize of panic as sleep left him, adrenaline high and blood pumping. His hand roamed over the mattress slowly, reaching towards a bedside table drawer that he found out a few seconds later to be missing. John frowned and jerked as another rumbling growl was followed by a garbled word and an arm flung over John’s side. He looked at the arm in the darkness, squinting as his eyes adjusted, and sighed loudly when he realised it was Sherlock and recalled the events of the last week and a bit in a rush.

The latest case had taken them to Llandudno in Wales where they had a room booked for the six days that Sherlock had predicted it would take them to solve it, and it had been a room Sherlock himself had said to have booked beforehand in London; a decent enough room close enough to the crime scene to give easy access, but far enough away to give them respite, if they needed it. It had all be fine, Sherlock had even spoken highly of the view, but what he had completely ignored was the fact that said room had only one bed, which they would be sharing throughout. Of course, this wasn’t as annoying to John as the flippant way Sherlock had exclaimed on arrival, very loudly, to anyone within earshot, that he had indeed told John about the bed and that they would just have to bunk together, as if they did it all the time.

Luckily for John, Sherlock hardly ever slept during cases and so had left John to enjoy the large expanse of the mattress whenever he had been allowed the time to do so, which turned out to only be a couple of hours a night before Sherlock woke him up and dragged him back outside with a constant stream of deductions and gleeful mutterings.

It had only taken Sherlock four days out of the six to solve the case, four days in which he had not slept a wink, and so with the case over and their departure date changed, they had gone to bed both overly exhausted, sharing the blankets without a word. 

At first it had been strange and awkward, the situation made worse when Sherlock had accidentally found the exposed space under the rucked up back of John’s vest with the sharp jab of his knees, and then John had fought away Sherlock’s hot feet with his own at least twice when Sherlock had suddenly squirmed and kicked out to entangle his legs with John’s with a snort, pressing the bare soles of his feet to John’s shins and thighs; but after a while it had become less strange and awkward and more frustratingly familiar.

Sometime after wrestling Sherlock from his person for a fifth time, John had finally fallen asleep, too shattered to continue to fight his fidgeting bedmate any longer; only to then wake again, hours later, when Sherlock had managed to crawl back into John’s personal space, talked in his sleep, and then literally growled in John’s ear.

John sighed and glared into the middle distance. The whole length of Sherlock’s body seemed to be melded to John’s, one of his legs curled around John’s own and his face so close to the back of John’s head that he could feel each puff of breath against his neck and down the neckline of his vest. Sherlock was radiating heat like a person-shaped water bottle and vibrating with energy, even in his slumber Sherlock was full of vigour it seemed. 

The scent of Sherlock’s shampoo and musk was both familiar and invading, simultaneously reminding John of home and the cramped conditions in Afghanistan. John had had to get used to the push and shove of bodies then, had to share and make do with fellow comrades, but John wasn’t there anymore, John was far from that piece of his life, so John wanted to be free of another man’s presence, to have his space back.

John turned around and shoved him away, pushing Sherlock’s sleeping figure across the mattress to the other side of the bed with a series of heaves that crumpled and twisted Sherlock’s pyjamas around his body, exposing Sherlock’s stomach and chest and tugging the hem of his trousers around and down his hips.

Sherlock scowled in response, murmured something in what John could only assume to be German and flipped around, turning his back to John with a huff. John took a breath and went to turn his back also but stopped when Sherlock shifted and grabbed at his own pyjama trousers, pulling at them in discomfort and then pushing them down his thighs a few inches before John could lunge across the space to stop him. John pressed Sherlock down into the bed and unfurled Sherlock’s fingers one by one, looking up when Sherlock stirred, mumbling and struggling, half-conscious.

“Sherlock,” John whispered through his teeth as he tried to keep his flatmate’s hands away whilst he righted the trousers and pulled them back up, covering up Sherlock’s exposed pelvis and backside. “Sherlock, stop wriggling!”

“But I don’t wanna wear my trousers, Mycroft!” Sherlock slurred sleepily as he lifted his head and slowly frowned down at John, then scrambled up the mattress with a noise of lethargic confusion. “John? What you doin’?”

The movement dragged Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms further down his legs and John fumbled to stop them without success, his hands landing on skin with an echoing smack and then sliding up Sherlock’s bare thighs from the momentum of John’s brisk movement, one of his thumbs catching in the crease of Sherlock’s groin.

John jerked back as if burnt but Sherlock, if half asleep, only gave a disgruntled, unintelligible complaint and pulled his knees up slightly, grabbing for John’s hand. He yanked at John’s wrist until John gave in and then suddenly pressed John’s entire hand to Sherlock’s warm, flaccid penis.

With a shocked and mangled gasp, John roughly snatched his hand back, “Sherlock! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t you wanna touch me?” Sherlock murmured, eyes droopy with drowsiness and legs limply spreading as much as the bunched pyjama trousers allowed, while he shifted against the pillows. “You can if you wanna…I don’t mind. Know you want to. I’m okay with it…no one else but you John…”

John flushed and spluttered, backing so far away across the mattress that he almost fell off the edge of the bed completely, “Sherlock…n-no…no! You don’t know what you’re saying, you…you’re sleep drunk…I told you that you needed sleep; didn’t I tell you? So long without sleep is not good for you!”

Sherlock smiled lazily at him, eyes almost entirely closed as he slumped into the middle of the bed, rolling onto his stomach, his bare backside visible. “It’s okay, John…can…can touch me if you wanna…” he trailed off into a soft snore and relaxed fully into the mattress with a fluttering of his eyelids.

John stared at him for a whole minute in stunned silence before he slowly moved over to manhandle the bottoms back up to Sherlock’s hips, making sure to grasp the fabric and touch as little of Sherlock’s skin as he could. John then rolled Sherlock onto his back, tucked the blankets around his shoulders, and moved back to his side of the bed to try and get back to sleep.

He remained awake for what felt hours, awkward and tensed, but soon, sleep claimed him once more and John slipped off in a dreamless slumber.


End file.
